The sun mocks me, this morning.
"Sleep has been crying over you," He croons,
and I crack my neck in a few different places.
"She misses your night skin."

I tell him that I want different things these days,
as I climb this tower, hand over hand.
I tell him, "I want my life to be something like
a hidden attraction. Something you could get
lost in, if you had the time, or the courage."

The sun just chuckles, "Sleep does not enjoy
dejection."

I snap at him that I do not enjoy being lonely
and tasteless. I don't enjoy being dismissed
and unrefined. My muscles burn with every
stretch upwards. I relish this clear pain.

"Sleep can wait until I attain
the grace I'm striving for."

A storm gathers in the distance.

There is sunlight over me, no matter what I do.